


The Tenant in 221C

by oleanderhoney (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221C, F/M, First POV, Gen, John's a bit not good, Jossed, Journal Entries, Language, Maggie's a bit dark, OFC-sort of, Snark, canon typical implied death, during great hiatus, unusual dialogue style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After six months in a rehab after trying to kill herself, Mary Margaret Morstan decides to move back to London. Her aunt, as it turns out, has a flat available. The address? 221 Baker Street.</p><p>This is a story of how two dysfunctional people meet, and fall in love.</p><p>This is the story of Maggie and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hah. Okay I need to stop starting all these little projects. But such is life. And especially since the premier of series three is upon us great and mighty fandom, I really wanted to get my take on Mary Morstan out before the show comes out with it. Not sure how well this is received by readers seeing as how I don't typically go for John/Mary, but I wanted to try out this particular style as well as some cutting sarcasm, and this is what came up. Would really love to hear what you all think.

_Entry 1 — June 24th_

Dear Diary.

I am writing in your bullshit pages because my therapist told me I should. So there. You can fuck right off like the lot of them.

Cheers.  
x


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way. This is a new style for me, so chapters will likely be short, but many at a time, hopefully. Sorry if it's a little jarring.

_entry 1 (cont.)_

Okay, note to self. Don’t leave this around for my wonderful aunt/benevolent landlady to find on happenstance when she takes it upon herself to bring me tea and make sure I’m still alive. (Seriously, though. Bless auntie Martha.) She told me off for such crass language in her ‘Now-Maggie-Really’ tone of voice that implied she was disappointed when she really wasn’t. She said I should take my therapist’s advice and continue writing.

Her look was so hopeful, and thinking of it now is probably the only thing that’s keeping me from binning the damn thing.

Who knows, maybe something amazing will happen tomorrow and I can turn this auto-biography into a best seller and make a mint. Here’s to hoping all this trouble and grief is worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Entry 2 — June 25th_

This is stupid. What happens if bloody NOTHING happens? Do I just keep writing? I should rethink my current therapist…


	4. Chapter 4

_Entry 3 — June 26th_

No seriously. This is bullshit. The only reason I am doing this is so I can prove to my doctor that I am still bloody functional as a human being. 

Not like she would ask for any proof, but still.

God Dammit.


	5. Chapter 5

_entry 3 (cont.)_

Changed batteries in the smoke detector.

Years from now they will be needing this bit of documentation that Mary Margaret Morstan was indeed capable of executing simple functions before she died of the inanity of that which is her life.

But, hey, at least I won’t die of smoke inhalation.

(Note to self: buy a new toaster.)


	6. Chapter 6

_entry 3 (cont.)_

The List of Things to being a Better Human. (According to Jeremy Kyle.)

1\. Don’t be a chav.  
2\. Don’t cheat on your spouse/lover/father or mother of your children etc.

All things considered, according to afternoon telly I’m doing quite well.

The List of Things to being a Better Human. (According to most American programming.)

1\. Don’t move to America.

Got it.

The List of Things to being a Better Human. (According to Aunt Martha.)

1\. Drink more tea.  
2\. Start an herb garden.  
3\. “Smile more, Maggie love. You brighten the room and it’ll save on the electric bill.”  
4\. Drink more tea.  
5\. “Take up a hobby. Mrs. Turner’s married ones got her into feng shui. Not my thing, I’ve got a hip, well you know. Can’t be moving furniture all over.”  
6\. And tea. At regular intervals.

Well at least she makes sure on my tea consumption. Bless.

There’s hope yet. If you can measure such a thing in tea cups.


	7. Chapter 7

_Entry 4 — June 27th_

God.

Fucking hell. 

I can’t even


	8. Chapter 8

_entry 4 (cont.)_

It’s barely tomorrow.

The basement flat I now live in is stone cold, but I don’t care even as my bare feet turn to ice as I sit on the sofa. I will probably not be able to go back to sleep tonight, and even if I do manage it somehow, there’s no way I am going back in that bedroom.

I can’t say it out loud, but the bed is too empty, and quite possibly even colder without another person next to me.

My therapist would sigh sympathetically if she were here, and then as gently as she could manage, try to remind me that it’s been over a year since

fuck.

since Brian died.

If I can’t say it here, then who else am I supposed to say it to, right?

The only thing now that is keeping me from falling apart is the curious sound of footsteps coming from the flat up stairs. I thought it was empty. 

Apparently 221B is haunted, and I wonder if Aunt Martha knows.

Surprisingly, the fact that there is a ghost living in the flat above mine doesn’t unsettle me like it probably should. In fact, the rhythmic pacing across the floorboards is soothing on a level I can’t explain.

Probably because no one else paces like that unless they are just as lonely and sad as I am.

Misery loves company, or so I’ve been told.

I end up going into the kitchen and pouring a small glass of rum, and offer it up as a salute to the poor sod upstairs. If anything, it soothes the raw edges of my nerves.


	9. Chapter 9

_Entry 5 — June 27th (still)_

Apparently the flat upstairs isn’t haunted after all.

There goes the plot twist in my amazing soon-to-be-best-selling autobiography.

I asked Aunt Martha about it this morning when she came over and delivered a package for me, and she apologised for forgetting to tell me about her other lodger. A man…

bugger.

What was his name? A doctor fellow.

He’s been away for about a year, traveling abroad or something. I feel like there’s something more to the story, but I didn’t want to push her. She got oddly silent when I kept prying.

She mistook my causal interest for something else entirely, however, and suggested I bake him something. I told her I would rather not. Christ, I haven’t baked in nearly six months. Haven’t wanted to after

anyway.

Although I am so bored I just might.


	10. Chapter 10

_entry 5 (cont.)_

I just have to say…the oven in my new flat is amazing. The cooktop is rubbish, though. It’s electric so that means the second you spill water on it it’s practically ruined. 

No matter.

My soufflé came out like a dream.

For a moment I thought about introducing myself to the man upstairs like Aunt Martha suggested, but it’s been deadly silent for most of the day. 

Better not.


	11. Chapter 11

~~Eggs~~

~~Milk~~

~~Butter~~

~~Sugar~~

~~Tea~~

~~Rice~~

~~Wine~~

~~Garlic~~

~~Onion~~

Definitely Wine

Sausage

Shampoo

Biscuits

Seriously. Don’t forget the Wine.


	12. Chapter 12

_entry 5 (cont.)_

The pacing started up again around midnight.

It’s quicker this time, and sharper. I can hear the individual footsteps, and I count them like a metronome. 

_step. step. step. step. step. turn. repeat._

I wonder what keeps him up at night. I wonder if there are things he’s afraid of seeing in his dreams just as much as me.

_step. step. step. step. step. turn. repeat._

I wonder where he went for a year. If he went with anybody, and which countries he stayed in and for how long. How he came to know my Aunt; how long he’s lived in London. What made him come back after an impossibly long sabbatical.

_step. step. step. step. step. turn. repeat._

A dark thought enters my mind, almost perverse, because what I really wonder is what made him leave in the first place. I know deep down that it was something terrible. We recognise our own, after all.

_step. step. step —_

All of a sudden it sounds as if he stumbles over something, and I am surprised to find that I can actually hear him curse. 

Apparently, 221C shares an air vent with 221B.

I hold my breath hoping he says something else, but he doesn’t. After a moment, I hear his footsteps retreating, and all is quiet again.


	13. Chapter 13

_Entry 6 — June 28th_

So Mr. Night Walker does have a name. And he is also incredibly rude.

Six in the morning. Fucking hell. I was woken up at six in the bloody morning by a pounding in the hall.

Normally I have the fortitude to ignore such things, but I had a particularly bad headache (too much wine) and a sudden proclivity to inflict abuse at who ever was making it worse.

Ha. My therapist calls it volatile behaviour due to chronic depression.

I call it bloody common sense. 

There are just some things that are inherent. For instance, you don’t muck about with milk in herbal tea. You also don’t take a stroll through the East End alone at night. And you really, really, do not try to knock the walls down on a bloody Sunday morning when the others you share the building with are trying to sleep.

The confrontation is as follows:

Me: What are you doing? It’s six in the goddam morning, did you know?

Mr. Night Walker (soon to be known as John.): Who the hell are you?

Me: I live here, who the hell are you?

John: John.

Me: Marvellous. Now will you pipe down?

John: Where’s Mrs. Hudson?

Me: [took me a moment to realise who the hell he was bloody talking about] …She’s not in. [I will admit I sounded like an idiot, but did I mention it was six? In the morning?]

John: I can see that, but where is she?

Me: Tetchy, aren’t we? She went to visit my mother in Brighton.

John: Brighton? Your mother? [I don’t think six am was doing too much for his brain cells either.] Who did you say you were, again?

Me: I didn’t. Mrs. Hudson is my Aunt.

John: …

Me: …

John: You just moved in.

Me: How did you guess? You must be a detective or something!

[Apparently this was a wrong thing to say because when I did he reeled back as if I actually slapped him. Which was weird because I swear I was only thinking about it. The colour practically drains from his face, and for a moment I actually felt sorry for what I said, although I didn’t know what it was exactly that hit a nerve. He dragged his fingers through his sandy hair and groaned.] 

John: Look, there’s something missing from my flat, and I was wondering if Mrs. Hudson took it.

Me: Are you implying that my Aunt is a thief?

John: God, no. I just asked her to look after a few…things while I was gone, and something’s gone missing and I really need it back. Look…you’re her niece. Did she leave you a key to her flat?

Me: No. 

[Actually she totally did, but there was no way I was going to let this nutter know that. For all I know he could be a deranged crack addict, and Doctor is just his street name. He was sure acting like he was on something.]

John: Shit. [He put his hand over his eyes just then, and I recognised his mania for the broken disparity of my own mentality. Like I said, it takes one to know one.]

Me: What is it you think she took?

John: It’s nothing it’s —

Me: …

John: It’s a violin. 

Me: …

John: You know what? Forget it. Forget I said anything.

Me: Wait…

John: Sorry to have disturbed you.

And then he went back up the stairs to his flat.

So there you have it. I’ve finally met Mr. John “Walker” M.D. of 221 Baker Street. Not a phantom. An actual person to match the night-time pacing. And maybe a bit crazy around the edges with a good dose of insomnia. (Again. Takes one to know.)

But like I said, utterly rude.

And buggering fuck.

Now I can’t get back to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

_entry 6 (cont.)_

List of Things to being a Better Human. (According to Possible Axe Murders in your Building.)

1\. Break into my aunt’s flat and retrieve said violin.

Why? Because I am a nice person, that’s why. 

So yes. This is how I became acquainted with John of 221B Baker Street. In all of its awkward glory for me to peruse later and possibly hang myself due to the awkwardness.

Enjoy, future self.

“…”  
(Apparently no one says hello when they open the door anymore, but whatever.)  
“Erm, hi. It’s me. From down stairs.”  
(Starting off splendidly. And it only goes down from here.)  
“Yes.”  
“I found your violin.”  
(Of course I had it behind my back like a complete cad.)  
“I…how did…?”  
“I do have a key. I lied.”  
“Why did you lie?”  
“Because I don’t know you. You could be a crazy person. Who keeps body parts in their fridge for all I know.”  
(Oh god. This is where I am praying the floor swallows me up.)  
(Ironically, he actually laughed at this, a startled bitter sound that he almost seems surprised at.)  
(On the other hand it’s disturbing that he doesn’t contradict me. He just looked at me with wide blue eyes as if I was something he couldn’t quite figure out.)  
“…Anyway. I just thought we got off on the wrong foot.”  
“…”  
“This is probably where you would agree with me.”  
“Is it?”  
“Well, yes. And this is also where you would probably apologise for being rude this morning. Just a suggestion.”  
“…”  
“Right.”  
“What’s your name? You never said.”  
“No I didn’t.”  
(God why can’t I answer his question? I’m just making it more awkward, but I can’t seem to stop.)  
“You’re very contrary.”  
(Now it’s my turn to laugh like an idiot because really. Mary, Mary quite contrary. He has no idea.)  
“You have no idea. Although I am starting a herb garden.”  
(Jesus god. Someone shoot the poor girl.)  
(He looked at me like you would expect. Like I’m crazy.)  
“…”  
“Yes well. There’s your violin. Wasn’t too much trouble. I’ll be going now.”

Well. There you have it. Oh and by the way, I found a helpful diagram for you, because you, Maggie, are an idiot.


	15. Chapter 15

_entry 6 (cont.)_

Well…that...tonight has been interesting.

Picture this: a quiet evening of crap telly and microwave lasagne and who should knock on my door?

Yes. 

Mr. Upstairs.

As if our past two run-ins weren’t bad enough, and now he has to make it a third. The conversation is as follows:

“Hello.”  
“Er…did you need something else? I know I have a key, but I don’t think I should be breaking into my Aunt’s flat when ever the mood strikes.”  
“No, no. Nothing like that…I just…you were right. Earlier.”  
“Splendid. About what?”  
“About getting off on the wrong foot. I was, as you said, rude. Hadn’t slept much since I’ve been back and well…”  
“Yeah I know. I hear you pacing at night.”  
“You do?”  
“Mm. Haven’t slept much myself lately.”  
“…Right. Sorry about that.”  
“No it’s all right. Actually I quite like it. Hearing you I mean.”  
“You do?”  
“Well…it makes it less lonely doesn’t it? To know you’re not alone when you are too afraid to fall asleep yourself? Or maybe that’s just me. Don’t pay attention to the things I say…I’m a bit…”  
(He laughed at this, the sound a lot warmer than that awful broken bitterness of before.)  
“I think I understand.”  
“Good…”  
“…I never thanked you properly. For the violin, I mean. You didn’t have to do that. I could have waited until Mrs. Hudson got back.”  
“No you couldn’t. I understand, though and like I said it was no trouble. It seemed important.”  
“It is. It’s very dear to me…”  
“I’m glad I could return it to you.”  
“…”  
“…”  
“Well. Yes. I just wanted to apologise, and let you know how much the gesture was appreciated.”  
“Okay. You’re appreciation is appreciated.”  
(He smiled in amusement. A tired smile, but an honest one, and seeing it made me want to smile in return. I’m not sure if I managed it however, a sudden weight settling over me that must have shown on my face.)  
“You are a bit…aren’t you? Like me.”  
(It takes one to know one.)  
“Is that bad?”  
“No. It’s good…very good I should think.”  
“My name is Maggie.”  
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Maggie.”

And then we shook hands.

And now I’m here. Wondering what just happened. Wondering at the fact that I actually may have just made a friend, and the idea doesn’t repel me like I thought it would.

I hardly eat my dinner, and barely pay attention to the telly, and when the middle of the night finally comes, I just sit on the couch and listen to the rhythmic steps from above me, inexplicably at ease for once.


	16. Chapter 16

_Entry 7 — June 29th_

Nightmares again.

I woke up entirely wrong footed. Like I was unraveling and my insides were going to fly apart if I got out of bed. So I didn’t for a bit.

Which in hindsight was probably not the best thing to do. Therapist would say I was adding fuel to the fire, or some other rubbish. 

God I really need to get another therapist.

It happens sometimes. This reeling chaos that fills every corner of me and makes my skin itch. It’s like my brain is trying to rewire itself for absolutely no reason, and I feel blindsided by a freight train.

During these days it’s best to not see people. Or leave the flat.

So I don’t.

Not like anyone other than Auntie Martha would want to see me anyway.

She came by once already, but I didn’t answer. The chicken soup she left by my door, however was delicious.

I’ll have to bake her something when I’m feeling up to it. A nice cake, perhaps.


	17. Chapter 17

_entry 7 (cont.)_

I had another visitor today. Thought it was Aunt Martha, but when I opened the door all I found was this:

I don’t entirely know what to make of it. Or what the bloody hell I’m going to do about it. Perhaps if I ignore it, it will go away.

Yes. That’s always worked like a charm…


	18. Chapter 18

_Entry 8 — June 30th_

I decided not to go to Speedy’s. Still wasn’t feeling like the ground beneath my feet was solid yet. It was definitely another day for crap telly and pot noodle. Good thing Connie Prince re-runs were on all day.

I stayed tucked up on the sofa and listened as I received another timid knock at my door. I held my breath and muted the telly.

It’s ridiculous, I know, but it happens sometimes.

Finally, I heard the footsteps retreating to the upstairs flat, and I breathed a sigh of relief. (Utterly ridiculous. I’m a grown woman for chrissakes.)

This was on my door though, and I can’t help but smile a little.


	19. Chapter 19

_entry 8 (cont.)_

I…don’t know what to make of it. Curious, curious man. I will have to say, though. I admire his staunch athleticism. That’s six times he’s walked up and down those stairs. Seventeen of them. I counted.


	20. Chapter 20

_Entry 9 — July 1st_

The knock comes at my door at eight am sharp whether I’m ready for it or not. Good thing I was ready, having previously decided that everything in my life was already tits-up as it was so what did I have to lose? If he was a crazy axe-murderer at least my death wouldn’t be something mundane. And what a great hook for my stunning autobiography, right?

For some reason, I’m not sure if this is what my therapist meant by positive thinking. But hey if it works, right? It’s better than sulking I suppose.

Bonus points for showering! Just thought I would mention.

The thing of it was, I actually had a somewhat of a decent time. Sod it all if he wasn’t actually charming in his own way, dilapidated underneath like me. 

Anyway, the facts are these:

“You’re bit of a bully, aren’t you?”  
“Probably. I’m very persistent, or so I’ve been told.”  
“…”  
“Not chatting you up, promise.”  
“Of course you aren’t. Not with that jumper, at least.”  
“This happens to be a very utilitarian jumper, I’ll have you know. And you’re not much better, Miss…tracksuit from the eighties.”  
“This happens to be a very utilty – arian (shut up) thing too. Oh, stop your laughing. It’s too early for words over three syllables.”  
“Stylish and smart.”  
“Good thing you aren’t chatting me up, then. Look who you’d be stuck with.”  
“Mm. Good thing. Fancy tea and a stroll?”  
“Might do, yeah. That thermos is a bloody turn-on.”  
“Utilitarian.”  
“Quite.”

***

“Did you know our flats share a vent?”  
“Do they?”  
“Yes. I hear you sometimes.”  
“Oh god. What do you hear?”  
“You pacing mostly. Sometimes talking to somebody. Can’t make out what you’re saying though.”  
“That’s a bit…personal.”  
“Well it’s not like I can help it. Our flats share a vent!”  
“You could not listen.”  
“Yeah I could. But I don’t.”  
“…Why?”  
“Because…you’re Misery, and I’m Company. Or vice versa, if you will.”  
“…You are strange aren’t you?”  
“Oh yes. I’m absolutely cracked.”  
“Me too, I should think.”  
“Mm-hm. Misery and Company.”  
“…”  
“These park benches are awful.”  
“You know I think the vent goes both ways.”  
“Oh…yeah I guess it would.”  
“At first I thought it was coming from somewhere outside, but that was you playing the Smiths yesterday, wasn’t it?”  
“…Yes…”  
“ _All_ bloody day.”  
“The mood called for it.”  
“Hah! Yeah I guess it did.”  
“…”  
"..."  
"..."  
“If a double decker bus —”  
“— crashes into us.”  
“To die by your side, such a heavenly way to die.”  
“And if a ten ton truck —”  
“— kills the both of us…”  
“To die by your side…’ //  
‘well the privilege the pleasure is mine.”  
“It’s a bit morbid, innit?”  
“Like I said, the mood called for it.”  
“Mm. I think I know what you mean, Maggie. Misery and Company.”  
“Misery and Company.”  
“Same time tomorrow?”  
“…Sure. But Speedy’s is fine. These benches are really awful.”  
“They are, aren’t they?”


	21. Chapter 21

_Entry 10 — July 2nd_

Boy. Speedy’s coffee really is shite.

I’ve been here for over an hour now, and no sign of my strange neighbor. I guess this is what it’s like to be stood up. I almost forgot what that feels like.

Not that this is a…date.

Is it?

No of course not.

Of course he has to be somewhat charming, with kind blue eyes and a nice smile. The ruddy bastard.

And now I’m sitting in Speedy’s feeling like an idiot.

Fuck it.


End file.
